


my [dear] boy

by twelfth_doctor



Category: Good Omens (TV), Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Crowley Takes a Nap (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Malcolm Bright Gets a Hug, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Mostly Gen, Multi, also I'm only slightly ripping off Doctor Who, everything I know about theology I learned from tv
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:14:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29442450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twelfth_doctor/pseuds/twelfth_doctor
Summary: “That really hurt, Crowley. Was thatstrictlynecessary?” an unfamiliarly accented voice erupted out of his father's mouth, startling Malcolm.“I'm sorry, Angel, but yes,” Crowley shrugged apologetically. “This is important.”“Quite all right, my dear boy,” he replied. He looked around a bit, as if absorbing his surroundings for the first time. He glanced down at his manacles. “Er... Are we inactualtrouble or is it our anniversary?” He gestured his cuffed hands at Crowley and pouted.With another snap from the man, the handcuffs disappeared.Malcolm, feeling forgotten and more confused than he had ever been in his life, cleared his throat loudly.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Gil Arroyo/Jessica Whitly, Jessica Whitly/Martin Whitly
Comments: 2
Kudos: 43





	my [dear] boy

“ _Angel, what the fuck is going on here. This was not the plan!”_

Malcolm Bright heard a strange voice echoing from the direction of his father's cell. His father only had a handful of approved visitors, and he knew them all a little too well.

“ _I'm sorry? You must have me confused with someone else.”_ Malcolm was able to identify his father's dulcet tones trying to soothe the stranger as he, very alert now, crept closer to the door at the end of the hall. There was a soft _clink_ from his chains as he presumably attempted to extend a hand in greeting, _“I'm Dr. Martin Whitly.”_

The stranger growled and began shouting again, but Malcolm was close enough now to notice Mr. David frozen at his post. No obvious pulse, but warm. Standing upright and unblinking. There was a very loud voice in the back of Malcolm's head shouting at him to _CALL FOR BACKUP_ as he gingerly removed the keyring and baton from Mr. David's belt.

The voice persisted _THIS IS STUPID_ as Malcolm hurriedly unlocked the door and burst dramatically through it with the baton raised towards the skinny red-haired man in sunglasses standing in his father's cell. “Who are you! How did you get in here? What have you done to Mr. David?”

The frustrated stranger did not seem threatened by Malcolm's sudden appearance, but genuinely surprised and curious. “More to the point, who are _you_ and how did you get in here?” he demanded in a British accent.

Martin broke the confused silence that descended between them. “My boy! How are you today?”

“I'm fine, Dr. Whitly. Who is this guy? Have you seen what happened to Mr. David?” Malcolm gestured to the unmoving guard outside.

Behind his dark glasses, the strange man's eyes flitted back and forth between figure calling himself “Martin Whitly” and the person who couldn't _possibly_ be there. He cleared his throat and interrupted, speaking slowly and deliberately: “I froze. Every human. In this hospital. So, let me ask again. Who. Are. You?”

The man snapped his fingers and the baton vanished out of Malcolm's hand at the same time the door closed behind him.

“Listen here, whoever you are. I don't know what business it is of yours, or how you did _that_ , frankly.” Martin shook off the confusion and puffed out his chest with pride, “But this is my son, Malcolm.”

“Your _WHAT?_ ” the stranger blanched. “Oh for Hell's sake. I can't deal with this on my own. You need your memories back. _Now._ ”

Malcolm stood by, utterly baffled, as the stranger wearing tightly fitted black clothes dashed over the red safety line and headbutted his father with a sickening crack.

“What the hell??” Malcolm shouted taking a few cautious steps forward. “Are you crazy!? Dad, are you okay?”

Malcolm received a small “Ow” in response.

The man backed away from Martin, giving him space.

“That really hurt, Crowley. Was that _strictly_ necessary?” an unfamiliarly accented voice erupted out of his father's mouth, startling Malcolm.

“I'm sorry, Angel, but yes,” Crowley shrugged apologetically. “This is important.”

“Quite all right, my dear boy,” he replied. He looked around a bit, as if absorbing his surroundings for the first time. He glanced down at his manacles. “Er... Are we in _actual_ trouble or is it our anniversary?” He gestured his cuffed hands at Crowley and pouted.

With another snap from the man, the handcuffs disappeared.

Malcolm, feeling forgotten and more confused than he had ever been in his life, cleared his throat loudly.

“Fuck. _Shit!_ Right. Er...,” Crowley groaned.

“Malcolm! Hullo, dear boy!” his father(?) cheerily greeted him once more.

Haltingly, Malcolm, began moving closer. “Dad? Why do you sound like that? Who is this guy?”

“I think we ballsed up that miracle, Aziraphale,” mumbled Crowley scratching at the back of his neck guiltily. “I may have had a bit of nap while you were away. I am so sorry I'm late.”

Martin/Aziraphale looked back and forth between his lover and his son, unsure of which to reach out to. The crushing realization of what had transpired and all of its ramifications began to hit him. He caught his own reflection in the glass of the cell door. Familiar to him as Martin, but startling and wild to Aziraphale.

With all his memories back, Aziraphale knew it would be too cruel to run away in the moment. Malcolm and Ainsley were owed an explanation. Jessica, too.

He closed the distance between himself and Malcolm, wrapping the young man in a big bear hug. Aziraphale donned his American accent one last time. “Son, I love you. I have always loved you. Whatever happens, I will always love you and I am _very_ proud of you.”

Malcolm confusedly returned the embrace while Crowley wore an inscrutable scowl in the corner.

Martin/Aziraphale retreated a few steps back, eyes glistening. “I'm sorry, my boy. We have to go now.”

“What do you mean—?”  
The words were barely out of Malcolm's mouth when Aziraphale snapped his fingers.

* * *

Instantly, the three men were standing in the foyer of the Milton family mansion. Malcolm reeled from the sudden change of scenery as well as his father's appearance: no longer wild-maned and bearded in a hospital-issue jumpsuit and cardigan, the man almost glowed with much shorter white-blond hair and a well-worn three piece suit.

Crowley sauntered up and leaned in towards Aziraphale's ear, “You sure you want me here for this bit, Angel?”

“ _You?”_ he replied incredulously, once again in his British accent. “You? _Mr. I'm a Scary Demon Who Fell Asleep for Thirty Five Years?_ ”

Crowley grimaced. “Fair point.”

Aziraphale fiddled his bowtie out of nerves. “You are not to leave my sight, dearest.”

“Malcolm,” the man who wore his father's face addressed him. “I'm sure you're very confused, my boy. I intend to explain everything, but it will be easier to do it just the once with the whole family. I believe your mother is in the study. Will you go and fetch your sister from the kitchen and meet us there? There's a good lad.”

Malcolm's feet started to obey before his mind could fully register the request. “Wait a second. You're going upstairs right now? To see Mom unannounced?”

Aziraphale gazed up the stairs, determined. “Yes, my boy. It'll be fine.” He reached out for Crowley's hand and they effortlessly fell into step with one another, climbing the stairs and leaving Malcolm alone with his awful premonitions of how his mother might react to seeing Martin outside of the hospital.

Malcolm tried to shake the thoughts away and resumed his mission to find Ainsley.

* * *

Malcolm, Jessica, and Ainsley sat together on the sofa.

The man they had always known as Martin sat across from them.

The lanky stranger stood in the corner with his arms crossed leaning against the fireplace.

“Once again, I am terribly sorry for the imposition. Crowley will return your mobile devices to you once we're certain you won't use them to call the authorities...or the television station.”

Crowley sheepishly grinned and waved from his post.

“Martin, what _the fuck_ is going on? Why are you British?” Jessica demanded.

“Well, here we go, then. My name is not Martin, as a matter of fact. And I'm not actually British, technically; I'm more...sort of...ethereal.” His face scrunched up with effort for a moment before his halo _popped_ into existence.

Three confused, skeptical faces continued to stare back at him.

“I'm an angel. My name is Aziraphale.”

More confused silence.

“Anyway, to make a long story short I've been on Earth more or less since The Beginning. I've always watched humans and been fascinated by them. After about 6,000 years of wondering what it's like to be human, my, ah, _partner_ and I, decided it would be a jolly good idea to let me try it out. I miracled up a lovely little backstory for myself and he wiped my memory so that I could fully immerse myself in human culture. Or, that was the idea anyway.”

Ainsley, eager to get the whole story, was the one who pressed him, “Then what happened? What went wrong?”  
“I had a family.” Aziraphale's eyes began to well up, looking at his children affectionately. “I was only supposed to participate in human society, pretending to be one of you. I wasn't meant to interfere or make dramatic impacts like this. Crowley was going to keep an eye on me from a distance and pull me out after a few months.”

“Why didn't he?” Jessica shot venomously at Crowley.

“Hey, now. Let's keep it civil, there, homewrecker,” Crowley spat back at her.

Jessica blustered at the accusation, “I beg your pardon! I _never!_ ”

Crowley scoffed and pointed at his ring finger. “He was my husband first, lady. I don't care what you call it; it's just plain rude to have a married man's kids.”

“Darling, do you really think you're helping the situation?” Aziraphale interjected.

Crowley fell silent and resumed his sulking.

“Answer the damn question!” Jessica cried out. “Why didn't he stop us?” She gestured between herself and Aziraphale.

“That's rather the embarrassing part. Crowley... fell asleep.”

“This whole time??? You're telling me that man has been asleep since we _met_?” Jessica looked incredulously between Aziraphale and Crowley. “Like, he was in a coma, you mean?”

“Well I was lonely. And then I was bored. And then I fell asleep.” Crowley shrugged.

“For THIRTY FIVE YEARS?” Jessica roared.

“'fraid so, Mrs. Whitly,” Crowley admitted, ashamed. “I never meant for any of this to happen. I didn't know it would get so out of hand.” His gaze shifted to the children.

“Let me get this straight,” Malcolm began. “Angel?” he pointed at Aziraphale, who nodded primly. He pointed at his mother, “Human.”

“Yes, dear,” Jessica sighed.

Malcolm pointed at Crowley, “...Another angel?”

“Not exactly.” Crowley slid his sunglasses down his nose revealing his yellow snake eyes.

“Crowley is a demon, but let's not hold that against him. He's nice,” Aziraphale offered helpfully.

“Oi!” Crowley complained, but Aziraphale shut him down with a glare.

“So...” Malcolm was doing some life-altering math in his head. “So Ains and I are half angel? Is that even a thing?”

“It hasn't happened in a long time and the whole thing is very much against the rules. I'm afraid God is going to be quite cross with me if she ever finds out I fathered Nephilim,” said Aziraphale.

Everyone in the room sat with that thought for a while.

“So God's a woman, huh. Nice,” Ainsley said softly.

“That's my girl! Way to look on the bright side, Ainsley,” Aziraphale beamed. When he smiled, his halo got impossibly brighter.

“So where does this leave us... Dad?” asked Malcolm.

Aziraphale's halo flickered and dimmed. He put it back into its pocket dimension.

“Well, son, I'm afraid the Martin Whitly you know has died. In a way, he never existed. In another way, he's still inside me somewhere. I will be getting a _lot_ of therapy to process the whole unfortunate....serial killer...thing.”

Ainsley pressured him for details once more, “So you're saying he's dead, but what are we gonna tell the hospital? The cops? The press?”

“When I miracled the three of us here, I left a facsimile of Dr. Whitly behind in his cell. Quite unalive.” Aziraphale looked into the faces of his children and ex-wife. “I'm sorry.”

Crowley spoke up from the corner, “Your phones have all been going mad, by the way. People trying to notify you, I expect. I wouldn't be surprised if somebody turned up—”

As if on cue, Gil Arroyo burst into the room. Crowley froze him in place. Gil was situated so all he saw were the three Whitlys sitting on the sofa. Aziraphale stood up to go.

“So you're just gonna leave?” Ainsley asked, a wounded note in her tone.

“Yes and no, my dear. I think it's best to let Martin's death settle into the public consciousness before I go traipsing around New York wearing his face and associating with his family. But I'll only ever be a prayer or a phone call or an aeroplane ride away.” Aziraphale scooped Ainsley up in his arms as if she were still 4 years old.

“You're my daughter and I'm not leaving you. I'll come see you as often as you like. You can call me any time—day or night. I literally don't sleep. You can visit my bookshop in London or we could go to our seaside cottage to get away from the city. Anything. You name it.”

Aziraphale set Ainsley back on her feet. She sank back down into her seat on the sofa.

“Same goes for you two,” he said, pivoting toward Jessica and Malcolm. “I know you're hurt and confused and weren't on the best terms with Martin. But I would still love to be involved in your lives if you'll let me.”

Aziraphale turned toward Crowley and nodded. Crowley tossed each phone back to its owner and gave a half-hearted salute. “See you around, humans.”

“Goodbye for now, my dears,” Aziraphale said, eyes glistening and voice cracking.

Crowley gripped his husband's hand and gestured with his other to unfreeze Gil. And then they were gone.

Gil's momentum resumed and he almost tumbled into the coffee table. Jessica shot up and threw her arms around him.  
“Are you guys okay? Nobody was answering their phones,” Gil said, muffled by Jessica's hair.

“We're okay, Gil,” Jessica said into his shoulder. “We just heard.”

Malcolm and Ainsley got up and joined the group hug, not quite having to pretend to mourn their father.

* * *

“I can't believe you serial-killed people. And I _really_ can't believe you had sex with a woman.”

“Oh, Jessica was lovely. Please don't ever tell her, but I think deep down a part of me was reminded of Nanny Ashtoreth. So severe. Commanding. You could almost picture her hissing at people.”

“Yeah, yeah. You're still in trouble mister. Flattery will get you nowhere.”

**Author's Note:**

> ✨ with apologies to Michael Sheen ✨  
> He's a delightful actor and I just wanted to cram the two things I love together.  
> I used his face to accomplish this 😅  
> (I also very much see the Time Lord fob watch parallels and 🤷 oops. My brain is a swirling vortex of pop culture lol)


End file.
